Thanks for having Joss, Ez, and me to visit today, Cheryl. I’m always excited about a new story, but this one seems to have a special place in my heart. I guess they all do, though, don’t they? Life’s Too Short for White Walls is a sweet romance with some hard edges in its story arch. And some soft places, too.
I often worry about my stories sounding alike, my heroines being paper-doll-cutouts of each other. I’m afraid I’ve written too many heroes with dimples in their left cheeks. Have I talked about too many people with crooked grins, one raised eyebrow, or a shrug that somehow defines their personalities?
I hope not, but a few of the things that are the same from book to book are starting over, new beginnings, home, friendships, tenderness. And I’m good with that.
They are there
in this story, when forty-something Joss Murphy and Ezra McIntire find
themselves in the same place, but searching for different things. They know a
few things about themselves by now—Joss is determined she will have color
wherever she goes and Ez is committed to always being one step ahead of things
that are dangerous or hurtful to anyone around him.
There are no
white walls on their journey, but danger and emotional landmines make
themselves known. And maybe the things they’re searching for aren’t so
different.
About the
story:
Still reeling
from her divorce, Joss Murphy flees to Banjo Bend, Kentucky, where she'd been
safe and happy as a child. The family farm is now a campground. Weary and
discouraged, she talks owner Ezra McIntire into renting her a not-quite-ready
cabin.
With PTSD keeping him company, Ez thrives on the seclusion of the campground.
The redhead in Cabin Three adds suggestions to his improvement plans, urging
color and vibrancy where there was none.
Neither is
looking for love, yet the attraction they share is undeniable. Can the comfort
of campfires, hayrides, and sweet kisses bring these two lost souls together?
Read an Excerpt:
He hadn’t kissed a
woman since Lucy.
He hadn’t felt like
this since…man, maybe never.
The campground was
quiet. Lights were still on in some trailers and motor homes and the occasional
campfire was surrounded by people in lawn chairs. No music broke the natural
hum of night sounds.
It was a perfect autumn
night. Cool enough to qualify as “crisp,” but as long as you had on a
sweatshirt, it was still a good time to be outside.
He drove a golf cart
instead of the Gator in deference to the stillness, but on the basketball
court, two teenagers played Horse. The whomp…whomp…whomp of the ball was
somehow not discordant. He and Silas used to do that. They’d sneak out of the
house after the old man was asleep and shoot hoops in the empty barn on a farm
a mile away. The Barnett boys and Pete Hilliard would come, too. They never got
caught. Only in long retrospect did he realize they hadn’t gotten caught
because everyone’s parents probably knew where they were.
He’d intended to go
home and go to bed after leaving Joss on her porch earlier in the evening, but
it had been impossible to settle in.
Could he have a
relationship? Did he have it in him? Or would he hurt both Joss and himself if
he tried? PTSD was hard on everyone, not just the one who suffered from it.
What would she do if he had a flashback, or even if he cowered in place because
he couldn’t be certain he was hearing fireworks instead of mortar fire?
She’d been hurt enough
by betrayal. How could he ask her to take a chance on being hurt by another
man, even if it was in an entirely different way?
He drove around the
building that housed the office and the camp store, stopping to make sure the
doors were locked, then drove to the restaurant building. It was secure.
Very few campers were
on the road, although a few couples were riding bicycles toward Colby’s Hollow
and some walkers sauntered from the direction of the creek. Only one walked
alone, and he pulled up beside her. “Want a ride?”
Joss smiled at him.
“Where you headed, Mister?”
“Nowhere in particular.
You?”
She came around and
climbed into the golf cart beside him. “Me, either. I was just restless.”
He chuckled. “I know
the feeling.”
They rode in silence
for a few minutes, then spoke at the same time.
“What are you—” he
said.
“Will you join us for
Thanksgiving?” she said.
“I’d like that.” He
didn’t know if he would or not, but he liked having been asked. He hoped—“Will
Gray be here?”
“I don’t know. I’m
asking him. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Me, either. Not in
person, anyway.” He’d like nothing better. Maybe if he talked to someone who
understood how things had been then, he could find some peace. It was a long
shot. But maybe.
“Why don’t you
concentrate on the house until then?” he suggested. “Have it as ready for B
& B status as can be achieved. It’ll be comfortable for your gathering.”
“You’re sure you
wouldn’t mind if I did that? You’re still the boss, and I’m nowhere near done
painting in the cabins.”
“It’ll be good for the
campground to have it done.”
“I’ll need to find a
place to live once you’re able to list it as a B & B.”
He hadn’t thought of
that. He wished he had, because the truth was, he didn’t want her to leave the
campground. “You can move back into Cabin Three. At least until spring.”
She nodded, although he
read hesitancy in the gesture. “If that works out, I’ll do that. Eventually,
though, I’ll want…” She stopped. “I don’t know. Something more permanent.”
“With no white walls.”
“Right.”
They rode around the
campground one more time, talking about the differences between growing up in
suburban Nashville and rural Missouri.
“I’ll bet you were on
the homecoming court,” he said. “Maybe not a cheerleader, though.”
“Neither. I worked in
the library in both high school and college.”
“Is library science
your degree?”
“No degree. I only went
for a year, then quit and got married. And I studied interior design. In
retrospect, I have no idea why. I like color a lot, and I’m glad to know how to
use it, but working in the library was what satisfied me.”
“Was it something your
parents wanted you to do?”
She looked thoughtful.
“I got my love of color from my dad—he painted watercolors. My mother has an
incredible eye for design. I expect I thought I could please her and make
myself happy at the same time.” She shrugged. “Not a particularly smart move on
my part. What about you?”
“I went to college
right out of high school, but it didn’t work out, so I enlisted after my second
year and took classes and got my bachelor’s and master’s degrees while I was
active. After Iraq—” He stopped. What was he doing? This wasn’t something he
talked about, but he couldn’t just ignore her questioning look. “I retired,” he
said. “Got my doctorate and taught at the college level. I was lucky. I loved
flying helicopters and I loved teaching.”
“But you don’t do
either anymore?”
The question scraped a
place raw that he tried to keep covered. It had been long enough that much of
military life seemed like a dream. He seldom thought about flying a chopper,
although he missed being in the air. But the classroom and the drive-him-crazy
students within it—he thought he’d miss them every day of his life.
He’d love to go back.
He liked the campground. He liked not having the paralyzing worry about his
contingent of students. But he missed teaching, missed watching them learn. It
was such a good way to be driven crazy.
The thought made him
laugh, a silent chuckle he couldn’t explain to Joss, although he wanted to. He
thought she’d understand. “No,” he said, “I don’t.” And then the surprise came.
“Maybe someday.”
Buy Links:
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Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/y4ecw5vh
Apple Books: https://tinyurl.com/yc75va4n
Liz Flaherty
is rather bewildered by where she’s at in life. She doesn’t feel…er…elderly,
but the truth is that she is. The Magnificent Seven grands have grown up on
her, her own kids are all now older than she is, and her husband Duane has the
same firm hold on her heart he’s always had. And it’s all good.
Website: http://lizflaherty.net/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/lizkflaherty
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